


oops! new masterminds (mastermind!au requests)

by bipp_splapl



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different Mastermind (Dangan Ronpa), Drabble Collection, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury Recovery, Mastermind!Leon, Multi, One-Sided Relationship, Request Meme, korekiyo uses gender neutral pronouns, mastermind leon would like step on a bird to feel alive, mastermind!korekiyo, skinhead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipp_splapl/pseuds/bipp_splapl
Summary: hi! doing mastermind!au request drabbles. i'd really like to explore other motives/scenarios for danganronpa. just request yours in the comment and i'll get to as many as i can :^)
Relationships: Amami Rantaro/Shinguji Korekiyo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	1. requests!

hi! if you're reading this, thank you for taking interest in my altmastermind!au series!!! i rlly want to explore alternative killing game scenarios. 

PLEASE NOTE: this series will be touching on sensitive and possibly triggering material. I DO NOT ENDORSE THE ACTIONS IN THESE FICS. these are the masterminds of killing games for despair after all. they're rude dudes. plz be safe and don't read anything that will make you uncomfortable !!!

when making requests please note I do not feel comfortable writing the following: 

  * smut
  * anything with wrists/veins



things that i have planned:

  * himiko yumeno
  * mahiru koizumi
  * jin kirigiri (aheehee)
  * kaito momota
  * yasuhiro hagakure



CHAPTER ORDER: 

  * mastermind!korekiyo; traitor!rantaro (i said amaguuji but make it ANGST)
  * mastermind!leon kuwata (ronald mcdonald looks like a fucking skinhead)



plz be patient with me ! i am but a dude. if you have a particular idea/scenario, feel free to describe it in the comments and i'd love to be given direction !! in the end this is my interpretation of the prompt. yep yep yep that is all

read my other series "to reckon" its a THH afterlife au (you can find it in my series section) i fucked up the formatting and accidentally made it an anthology instead of a chapter fic but technically you can read everything as standalones if you want, thye work they just don't work as well. i am going to try slowing that series down and will have it done by june/july instead of end of may. i'm excited to work on both !!! ty for supporting me :^)


	2. mastermind!korekiyo; traitor!rantaro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i said angsty as hell amaguuji !!! for a mastermind fic about the anthropologist, it sure is rantaro-centric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> korekiyo uses they/them pronouns

Amami Rantaro watched as the filament swirled in his cup, particles of oolong that snuck their way into his cup. They were carried in the current, helpless against a force of nature. So small and insignificant, only a cog in a grander scheme. Not that they would know. Leaves do not have minds. Leaves do not think. They grow, and then they die, and they’re turned into something beautiful. 

They’re turned into afternoon tea. The rituals kept time grounded. 

Across from him sat someone Rantaro so desperately wanted to call his friend, but he knew, deep down, that was not true, was it? An infatuation, but not a friend. Not the way they understood. 

The Ultimate Anthropologist had not touched their cup. They never did, despite being the one who always set up these meetings. Instead, they watched head in their hands, with a pleasant crinkle to the eye. One could almost say their gaze looked kind. 

Almost. Rantaro could only squirm. A butterfly pinned under their watchful eye. 

He had met Shinguuji Korekiyo nearly two years ago now if his timeline was correct. It was a comfort, really, to find someone with the same culture in such a foreign land. It helped to ease the shock. Soon Amami found himself spending evenings with the anthropologist, comparing stories and field notes, artifacts and anecdotes, anything, really, to remind him of home.

There were evenings Shinguuji would not return to camp, instead of dragging in at the crack of dawn, heavy bags under their eyes, and a falter in their composure. These evenings, they would always explain, were devoted to rituals, the ones locals entrusted with lock-and-key. Rantaro understood. It was an honor to be allowed to participate. 

On those days, he would prepare congee for the two without a second thought, keeping the conversation alive while Shinguuji listened, Shinguuji observed. They always observed.  _ Had he ever eaten the congee? _ Amami wondered, before yanking himself back into reality to the clink of spoon against porcelain. Glancing up, green eyes met amber, another gentle crinkle greeting him. 

He did not know. He did not know.

It was a sad day, leaving the mountains, leaving a new friend, and a special time in his life, one Rantaro would remember fondly. But to his pleasant surprise, he ran into his new friend  _ friend? n _ ot even six weeks later, this time under the beating desert sun. The rituals resumed. The rituals kept him grounded. The tea and the congee and soon, the retrieval of mail, the washing of clothes, the communal baths. Rantaro gave, but he also took. 

His line of work was far more dangerous compared to the anthropologist, and he often returned to camp blackened and bleeding. On those nights, Korekiyo offered to tend his wounds, working deft fingers into the knots on his back. Sometimes they would idly explain how tendons connected to tendons, and the places of pain were often rooted farther than one would think. With a little jab, Amami screamed, proving the anthropologist’s point before rubbing out the tension, soft murmurs to dull out his thoughts. Sometimes they would work silently. Rantaro always felt like something to pick apart and put back together.

“It’s been lovely, hasn’t it?” Korekiyo tilted their head to the side, hair falling like sheets of water. Something in their voice always dulled out his senses, and without thinking, he agreed. __

Rantaro smiled with a lazy shrug. “Which? The killing game, or this afternoon?”

The anthropologist gave a little hum. The fabric of their mask shifted just enough for Amami to know they were pursuing their lips in thought. The lips he so desperately wanted to whisper affirmations to him, to tell him he is good, he is enough, that his gifts are appreciated, that the sacrifices he made honorable, that his sisters would be happy, now, and safe. 

Lips he wanted desperately to see. Lips he wanted so desperately to kiss.

“It’s beautiful, is it not? The world’s greatest study of character.” Their eyes crinkled once again, fondly gazing upon their favorite curiosity. Nothing more than a simple amusement, something to pick apart and learn from. So many stories. So many secrets. So many lessons to learn and games to play, always so willing, always so compliant. A toy that both knew would be tossed aside, one day. Amami focused on the time he had. He took another sip of the tea, bitter from being left to steep too long. That was his fault.

Oh god, this was all his fault.

Instead of saying anything, he nodded, taking it in. The bitter tea burned his throat going down. He burns. They’ll burn, too. Everyone burns in the end, deep in the pits of hell. And yet even now, a sense of calm overtakes him. A feeling of drowsiness. Everything felt fuzzy around the edges, and Korekiyo smiled. 

They began to ramble on about needing one more friend after the sacrifices of Chabashira and Yonaga, just one more before their work is complete, and how infuriating it is to sit at ninety-nine instead of a nice, round number, and  _ “You’re friends with Akamatsu, aren’t you? Lovely girl...” _ but Amami couldn’t focus, his head was pounding. His head was screaming. It felt like someone had taken a dull cleaver and wedged his head in two, hit, hit, hit, chipping away at his very consciousness. And Korekiyo smiled, intently watching the unraveling. 

He had devoted his life, soul, time, money, energy to the anthropologist. A shell of a man, there was nothing left for Rantaro to give, no matter how much he wanted. A sense of dread. A sense of calm. This was despair, wasn’t it? Oh, humanity was beautiful. 

The touch of fabric brushing against his cheek pulled him back to reality, if only briefly. At some point, the anthropologist must have stood up from their chair, as they were now holding Rantaro’s face in their bandaged hands. Their thumb brushed under their eye, wiping away tear streaks the adventurer had not noticed. 

With a simple shift of the hand, Rantaro’s eyes trailed up, neck straining at its new angle. Korekiyo said something to them, then, soft and soothing, but he could not hear. The world around him capsized, and he was drowning, drowning in amber eyes and too-soft movements that enveloped him, dragging him down, down, down. 

Amami Rantaro had nothing to give but his life, and he so desperately hoped that when he fossilized, may his body be something to display. Something beautiful. 

Maybe then the anthropologist would love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever just. sacrifice all twelve of ur sisters to a serial killer and render yourself a traitor bc gay panic? siiiiiiimp


	3. mastermind!leon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its the final trial. figuring out the mastermind's true identity is a matter of life-or-death. but when left with only the three blackened as options, class 78 has to put faith in yasuhiro's 30%

Class 78 stared at each other, coming to an apparent lull in the trial. They had figured out the mind erasure and time spent together, but the mastermind’s true identity still alluded them. The room was tense - any one of them could have executed this scheme. Drumming fingers was the only thing breaking the silence, coming from the direction of the Ultimate Heir. 

After another tense moment, Makoto tried to break their silence. “While I know things are looking bleak, I know we can overcome this!”

“And how can you prove that Naegi?” Byakuya scoffed, 

Kirgiri cut Makoto off before he could fumble over his own words. “You four were together ahead of the fifth investigation,” she explained with a small smile. “And Makoto and I have alibis, as proved by our last trial. As we’ve established, someone is controlling Monokuma. So that must mean there’s another person in this school.”

“But Monokuma said only sixteen students have been in Hope’s Peak since the killing game began.” Aoi’s voice wavered, unsure of her own argument. She tried to stay peppy, but the hours of discussions weighed her down. “There’s been ten deaths. It has to be one of us six.”

With that, the conversation died again. The Ultimate Swimming Pro made a point. The dead couldn’t do much. Unless…

“What if…” Hagakure began, rubbing his chin. “What if the mastermind was dead.”

“W-what, idiot, like o-one of your ghost st-stories?” Toko spat, dragging a small chuckle out of Byakuya. 

“No! Ghosts aren’t real!” Yasuhiro began before shaking his head, feeling a side tangent coming on. No ghosts. There’s something better than that going on. “ _ That’s not my point!  _ What if it was just someone we thought was dead?”

“What, like they faked it?” Asahina suggested with a tilt of the head.

“I checked the victims myself, as did many of you. They were well past their prime-”

“But did you check the blackened?” Byakuya picked up Hagakure’s idea and ran with it, mind racing a thousand miles per hour. “Of course not. Why would you? The bodies were all but destroyed after each execution, the thought seemed tedious. That leaves three possible culprits, all presumed dead because  _ you  _ were not thorough-”

_ “No, that’s wrong!”  _ A voice cried out. Makoto pointed at Byakuya, just like he had a million times before.  _ Was this flirting? _ one of the Ultimates might have wondered, but that was a question for a different time, a different story. “If I recall, you did not volunteer to check the bodies either. None of us did. You cannot place the blame on one person!”

“There are thr-three possible paths here, b-but only one will keep us from ex-execution.”

“We should talk this out!” 

“Or,” Kirigiri injected, cutting Aoi off. “We could ask the Ultimate Clairvoyant.”

All five Ultimates turned towards Yasuhiro, who was mindlessly poofing up his hair. It took him a second to notice the lull in the conversation, practically jumping out of his skin when he realized everyone was looking at him. 

“Wh-why me?” He stammered, taking a step back. 

“You can predict the future.”

“Y-yea. A-about thirty percent of the time…”

“But that doesn’t mean you guys should rely on me!” He cried.”

Byakuya scoffed, turning the other way. “As much as I hate the idea, despite having a possible lead, we don’t actually have any more information to back it up.” He turned back, his eyes like daggers. “So, this might be the best shot we have.” 

“We believe in you, Hagakure!” Makoto smiled, his voice was a little softer than the rest. And with that, the group went quiet, watching, waiting. No one was sure what, exactly, they were waiting for, but they waited. 

At first, Yasuhiro seemed unsure of himself, like he wanted to stammer out some sort of excuse, about lack of payment or lack of materials, but something inside him settled. The tension in his brow melted away, and his eyes glazed over. Somewhere he was distant.  _ How strange _ , Kirigiri thought to herself. This was not like the other seventy percent she had witnessed. 

For a moment, his otherwise pleasant resting face shifted to a frown, almost more conflicted than anything. Aoi swore she heard Yasuhiro mutter under his breath  _ “please let me be wrong... _ ” before pointing at Monokuma.

“The only thing worse than a ghost, Leon,” Yasuhiro started, peeking one eye open. “Is a liar. 

Nothing. There was nothing from Monokuma, almost as if he had been abandoned. What was left of Class 78 waited with bated breath. And then in confusion. Someone shifted, the sound of fabric ruffling filled the dead air. Byakuya scoffed (he always scoffed), and Kirigiri shot him a glare. 

Wrong. They were wrong. They were going to be punished, huh?

But as soon as Makoto opened his mouth to calm the group, to say something about how hope will prevail, a  _ crack  _ came from above. It echoed off the walls and filled the room, almost inhumanely loud. Almost like a baseball ba-

Class 78 looked up to find a familiar face standing in the rafters, grinning like a maniac. There was a gasp. Someone cried out. A thud, presumably the Ultimate Writing Prodigy fainting. Aoi rushed to her side. The others simply stared, seemingly face-to-face with a ghost.

Kuwata Leon, live in the flesh, and boy did he look like shit.

“Took you bastard long enough!” He called out with the same raspy chuckle that haunts that first trial room. No. This time it was raspier. 

No one replied. They were too transfixed by the sight in front of them. There were no trick doors or dummies - he really went through with that execution, with all the battle scars to prove it. There was a patch over his eye, and one of his arms was in a brace. His front-page smile was now missing a few teeth, too, but he didn’t seem to mind. Kuwata was practically giddy, grinning like an idiot from ear-to-ear as he made his way down, grabbing a pole and sliding down fireman style. 

A pole...how could he even stand to look at one of those, let alone embrace. It was practically...despair-inducing. 

But as he slid down, his former classmates his former friends realized there was one glaring change staring them all in the face. Aoi absently pointed at his head, her mouth a little agape. 

“Kuwata-”

“Your hair…”

“Ronald McDonald looks like a fucking skinhead.” Only Genocider Syo seemed to have the guts to say what was on everyone’s mind. 

All the former baseball star could do was laugh. “If the boot fits, lick it.” (Byakuya muttered something about how that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard in his life) “And what if I am, huh? Suits my lifestyle just fine.”

“So, you orchestrated all this?” Kyoko kept her stony mask, though her voice was edging towards hostile. “I honestly didn’t think you could manage something like this, Kuwata, after such a sloppy trial. I thought you were-”

“Stupid?” 

“No, but-”

“Have you considered,” he grinned, rubbing a hand against his buzzed head, “that I might’ve faked it?” The detective opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Of all the possibilities, the most obvious had been staring her in the face all along. 

By now, Leon had made his way back to his rightful place in the circle. With a single flick, the top-heavy picture frame came crashing down. The broken glass shattered on the floor, a few hitting his leg through rip holes. All he could do was laugh.

.... _ Jesus Christ…. _

“Since nobody wants to ask the big picture stuff here, I’m gonna monologue for a second, ‘k?” That was more of a statement than a question, it seemed.“Sayaka and me teamed up, right? Original plan would be she kills me to kick things off and so I had an easy out to oversee things. I knew Kirigiri would solve the case, and then badabing, badaboom, it’s her execution. I hadn’t decided if she was gonna live or gonna die at that point, honestly, I think it was gonna be a game-time decision.”

Leon continued on, all the while picking at something at his teeth. “But you know what? Changed my mind day-of. I was getting antsy. Boom! Even if it weren’t for those numbers, I don’t know why any of youse believe it was Makoto’s crime. He can’t throw a ball for his life, let alone a precision aim between metal grates at a thirty-mile distance. You’re the Ultimate Hope Twink, kid, not the Ultimate Ball Boy-”

“You mean Sayaka-” Makoto furrowed his brow, desperately trying to divert the conversation away from his….’hope twink-ery.’

“Betrayed you! Yes, duh, obviously, that’s like the one consistent part here! Don’t know why Kyoko tried to convince you otherwise, and I don’t know  _ how  _ you fell for it!”

“And you  _ killed  _ her. Why?”

Leon snapped his head around, an icy blue eye meeting khaki. A visible shiver ran down the lucky student’s spine, tugging a smile at the mastermind’s lips. They had seen Leon smile before, they all had. He was a grinning idiot, in magazines, in the lunchroom, in class. Even sheepishly when he was caught, like a schoolboy about to get his hand slapped, not a murderer on death row. 

He never was on death row, was he? The sounds of his pleads flooded their minds, choking sobs and crocodile tears stumbling over his words. Maybe Kuwata should have been the Ultimate Actor.

Two hands wrapped around the pulpit, demanding the attention to  _ stay on him.  _ “We all have our sick kicks, Naegi. Didn’t you feel the rush? Didn’t you all have fun-”

“Makoto- I think you had the most fun of all.”

Eyes shifted over, burning into the back of Makoto’s soul. Leon’s voice shifted, still talking at Makoto, but almost as if he was talking somewhere beyond. To someone who wasn’t really here, but was just as involved in this mess as the rest of them. A seventeenth student. 

Makoto shuttered. Leon grinned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love leon. i love him so much if u haven't noticed from my leon-centric thh afterlife au. but mastermind leon is a skinhead and would step on a bird. honestly? lowkey iconic of him adsfasfkljasfja;f j IM KIDDING NO PLZ NO
> 
> anyways read to reckon
> 
> honestly the idea of having a mastermind for an endorphin kick has been a really interesting idea for me, and is actually the angle im taking my own mastermind oc i have for a fangan. swag. you can orchestrate a giant killing game and also be smooth brained. that's the take i have


End file.
